THE UNDESERVED
There were birds in the woods, and soft breezes. Squirrels chattered
at me, and I saw flowers. And sometimes I saw blood on trampled moss
where fugitives had been before.
I called, and fired my arquebus. I whistled, for that sound carried
far. Since that day the sound of a whistle is terrible to me. It
means despair.
Soldiers, grave-faced, respectful, followed me.
They were faint for food, and sore and sick from warfare, but they came
with me without protest. They gave me the deference we show a mourner
in a house of death. I turned to them in a rage.
"Make more noise. Laugh. Talk. Be natural. I command you."
We divided the woods among us, like game-beaters in a thicket, and went
over the ground foot by foot. We found nothing. The birds sang and
the sun went higher. Though the woods were pure and clean I could
smell blood everywhere. In time a man dropped from exhaustion. At
that I gave the word to go back to camp.
The camp itself was less terrible than the memories that had been with
me as I walked through the unsullied woods. The wounded were cared for
and the dead buried. The Indians were gathered around their separate
fires, chanting, feeding, bragging, and sleeping. The French had made
a camp at one side, and they, too, were seeking comfort through food
and sleep. Life was progressing as if the mutilated dead had never
been.
We had succeeded, Cadillac assured me. All the Senecas were dead or
captured and our total loss, French and savage, was only seventy-five
men. We had but few wounded, and the surgeon said they would recover.
I nodded, took food, and went alone to eat. I sat there a long time.
Cadillac came toward me once as if to speak, but looked at me and
turned away.
At last I had made up my mind, and I went to the hut where I had left
Pemaou. It had taken time to fight down my longing for even combat
with him, but I knew that I must not risk that, for I needed to keep my
life for a time. So I would try for speech with him first, and then he
should die. And since he must die helpless, he must die as painlessly
as possible. Physical revenge had become abominable to me. It was
inadequate.
I entered the hut. Pemaou's figure lay, face downward, on the floor.
It had a rigidity that did not come from the thongs that bound it. I
turned it over. The Indian's throat was cut. Life had flowed out of
the red, horrible opening.
I think that I cursed at the dead man. Corpse that he was, he had
tricked me again, for I had hoped, against reason, to force information
from him. Death had not dignified his wolfish face. He had died, as
he had lived, a snarling animal, whose sagacity was that of the brute.
And I had lost with him this time, as I had lost before, by taking
thought, and so losing time. An animal does not hesitate, and he is a
fool who deliberates in dealing with him. I tasted desolation as I
stood there.
A moccasin stepped behind me. "I killed him," said Singing Arrow's
voice.
I turned. She was terrible to look at. Life had given this savage
woman strength of will and soul without training to balance it. She
was Nemesis incarnate. Yet blood-stained and tragic as was her face,
her words were calm.
"He killed my man."
What was there to say? It was only her look that showed she had been
through tempests; in mind she seemed as numbed as I. I took her by the
arm and led her outside. I turned away from the blood-soaked camp, and
took her to the beach where the water was yellow-white and rippled on
the sand. I motioned her to wash away the blood stains on her face and
arms. Then I spoke.
"Singing Arrow, do you intend to kill yourself and follow Pierre?"
She drew her blanket high and folded her arms. "Yes, if he calls me.
When I dream of him twice I shall know that he is crying for me and
cannot rest, so I shall go after him. I have dreamed once
already,--after I killed the Huron. When I dream once more I can go."
I touched her arm. "Look at me. Singing Arrow, Pierre is not calling
you to follow him. He is calling you to pick up his work where he had
to drop it. He died trying to save me. He wants you to help me now.
My wife is in the woods. You are to help me find her. Will you help
me, Singing Arrow?"
She shook her head. As she looked at me, scornful and sorrowful and
absolutely unmoved, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever
seen. I knew this remotely, as an unblest ghost might know a warmth he
could not feel.
"You do not need me. If your whisper cannot reach the white woman she
would not hear my shouts. I must go with my man."
"Singing Arrow, the Great Spirit is not ready for you. When he is
ready he will send. You must wait for him to send."
She did not shift her look from me. "Your Great Spirit is strange. He
tells you that you are brave men and good when you take other lives,
but he will not let you take your own. Why should you have power over
other men's bodies if your own does not belong to you? Your Great
Spirit may be right for you white men, but for me he speaks like a
child. When my man calls me I shall go." She dropped her eyes,
wrapped her blanket closer, and went away. I did not follow her. She
had as sound a right to her belief as I to mine.
And what was my belief?
The sun was at the horizon, and I went to Cadillac. "You hold council
to-morrow?"
"Yes, to-morrow morning."
"I shall be here."
"But where are you going now?"
"To the woods."
Cadillac took me by the arm. "Montlivet, be sane!"
But I think that as he looked at me he saw that I was sane. "I shall
be with you in the morning," I promised. And I would have no further
words.
All that night in the woods, both waking and dreaming, the thought of
the woman was like a presence near me. I slept some, dropping against
trees, then roused and stumbled on. I do not know that I consciously
searched for her, but I went on and on to meet her. It seemed that I
should always do that while I lived,--should always push my way
forward, feeling that beyond the next turn she stood beckoning.
The stars rose and set. There were multitudes of them and very bright.
If man could only have his orbit fixed and follow it as they did; be
compelled to follow it by a governing power! The terrible cruelty of a
God who throws volition into a man's hands without giving him
understanding to handle it came to me for the first time.
When day arrived I ate a portion of meal and meat, and made my way
back. It was a long trip, for I had wandered far, and when I reached
the camp the sun was three hours high. A large tent had been made of
skins and tarpaulins, and French and savages were gathered there and
waiting. I was late. The calumet was already passing as I went in.
I halted a moment at the entrance. There was no cheer of welcome at
sight of me. Instead there was a hush,--the hush of suspended
breathing. In two days these savages had come to draw aside from me
for what was in my look. "His face is the face of one dead,"
Outchipouac had said. I knew that I had grown to seem abnormal, alien.
I tried to form my expression to better lines, but it was out of my
power. I took my place as interpreter, and the long conclave opened.
The hours of droning speeches went on and on. Each tribe presented its
claims, and metaphor shouldered metaphor. It sounded trivial as the
bragging of blue-jays, but I interpreted carefully and kept the
different headings in mind. Then I asked Cadillac's permission, and
took it on myself to answer.
Sometimes the Power that rules us, and that shoves us here and there to
play our parts in the game, seems to me nothing but a cold-eyed
justice, remote, indifferent, impartially judicial. So I felt now. In
looking at the issue I saw that meaning and vitality had gone from my
spirit, but I had kept equity. I parceled the spoil among the tribes,
and did it without doubt of my judgment or care for its acceptance. I
remembered Outchipouac's plea for his people, and found it just. The
Malhominis had sent the largest force in proportion to the strength of
their tribe, and their position on the bay was strategical. So I gave
them their choice of a third of the captives. To the remaining tribes
I gave the rest of the captives and the confiscated weapons. Then I
passed the calumet among them.
I had spoken coldly, as an onlooker. Perhaps my air of detachment gave
me authority. The chiefs smoked the calumet and ratified my words.
That part of the council was over.
And then to the future. Cadillac rose. His eloquence painted the
prospect till it shimmered like a dream landscape, rose-tinted,
iridescent, with sparkling vistas full of music and bugle calls and the
tramp of marching men with the sun in their faces. We, French and
Indians, were a united people. Our young men were brave and full of
vigor. We should sweep all before us. We should crush the Iroquois
and drive the English far away over seas. We should go now to
Michillimackinac and march from there to conquest and empire. All the
bubble dreams of sovereignty, from Nineveh on, glittered in his words.
I translated faithfully.
Outchipouac answered. I had somehow won his spirit, which was brave
and vigorous. Perhaps he repented his distrust of me. My silver chain
was on his neck, and he fingered it. He said that where I led the
Malhominis would follow. His wild imagery swept like the torrent of an
epic. The man was warrior, dreamer, fatalist. He called on the chiefs
of the tribes to witness what I was, what I had done. Water could not
drown me, arrows could not harm me. I wore the French garb and my face
was white, but I was something more universal than any race. I spoke
all tongues. I was like the air which belonged to French and Indian
alike. I was a manitou; I had been sent to lead the Indians back to
the supremacy that they had almost lost.
I could believe him as I listened. I did not remember that he spoke of
me. He was talking of some great principle, some crystallization of
the forces of the woods in man's shape. The woods that had nurtured
the Indian should protect him. At last, out from the woods had come
this spirit,--this spirit that was their voice. He did not talk to me,
he talked to the skies and the clouds and the forces that dwelt in
them. It was the call of a savage king to the soul of the wild earth
that had cradled him.
So swept away was I that I could not have translated. But it was not
necessary. He had spoken in Algonquin, which all but the French and
Hurons understood. The war chiefs rose. It is strange. An Indian may
scalp and torture, yet have at heart much of the seer and poet. The
chiefs came forward and laid their bows and quivers full of arrows at
my feet.
For a moment Outchipouac's speech had warmed me as I thought I might
not be warm again. But when I saw the chiefs advancing I became stone.
"I cannot lead you," I said in Algonquin, and I knew my voice was
blank. "Outchipouac is wrong. I am no manitou, but a man so weak he
does not know the truth even for himself. How can he lead others?
When I brought you here the sun shone brightly, and I thought I saw the
way ahead. Now I am in darkness and mist. Go. Leave me. Find a
leader whose sight is not clouded." I turned my back and stood with my
head down.
A murmur rose. I had broken the illusion. We had all been riding the
clouds of fancy, and I had dashed us to earth again. The chiefs had
come to me with their hands out, and I had thrown water in their faces.
They had reason for their anger. Cadillac saw the pantomime and
lumbered from his seat. He seized my arm.
"Montlivet, you are insane! You are insane!"
I pointed him to the woods. "Monsieur, I have dropped my sword. I
shall go into the forest for a time."
He shook me as if I were in a torpor. "Your wife"----
"I shall search for her. I am going out now with Indian trailers. I
shall not leave this country till all hope is past,--then I shall go
west."
For a moment suspicion clutched him. "Oh, you would form your union
without me! You are planning a dictatorship."
I took him by the arm and begged him to understand. "I have dropped my
sword," I reiterated. "I am going on alone. I have skins and
provisions cached at Sturgeon Cove--enough for barter. I am not
insane. I shall go prudently. There are lands and peoples to be
explored in the west."
The clamor grew. Dubisson and others of the French came nearer.
"Speak to the chiefs now. Speak to them now," they begged. "You can
save the situation yet."
I watched the Indians. "They are departing peacefully."
"But they are departing!"
I looked at Cadillac. "And why not?"
He drew his sword. "Montlivet, have you turned priest--or coward? Do
you dare to try and tell me that war is wrong?"
I looked at him, and left my own sword untouched. "I do not know what
I believe. I am going back in the woods. Perhaps I shall learn. But
now we have done all that we set out to do. We have destroyed the
Seneca war party. We shall be safe from the Iroquois for some time."
"But we are just ready to go on. Our men are ready."
His words seemed meaningless. "Ready! Are intoxicated men ready? We
have drunk blood. Now we are drunk with words. I will not"----
A roar outside cut my words short. "The woman! The woman!" I heard
the cry in several languages at once, but I could not comprehend it. I
saw the crowd rise and surge toward me, making for the entrance of the
tent. I turned and ran with them. Yet my mind was numb.
We reached the outside. I was in advance. A great canoe was at the
shore and Onanguissé was directing his oarsmen. In the bow of the
canoe sat the woman.
I reached her first; I caught her from the canoe. Yes, she was alive;
she was unhurt. Her hands were warm. I heard her breathe. I dropped
on my knees at her feet.
And then she bent over me and whispered, "Monsieur, monsieur, you are
unhurt!" Her voice had all its old inflections, and I rose and looked
at her in wonder. Yes, she was alive. She was grave-eyed and haggard,
but she was alive. The hands that I held were warm and trembling,
though my own were cold and leaden as my palsied tongue. She was
dressed in skins, and I could see the brown hollow in her throat. I
could not speak. I laid my lips upon her hand and trembled.
French and savages pressed around us in a gaping, silent ring.
Cadillac had given us the moment together, but he edged nearer,
bewildered by my silence.
"Madame, we welcome you," he cried. "Your husband has not been like
himself since he heard of your danger. Give him time to recover. We
have been a camp of mourning for you. Tell us of your escape."
And then I spoke. I drew her hand through my arm and turned her to
face the crowd. "They are your friends, madame," I said, as if it were
the conclusion of a long talk between us. "Thank them, and tell them
of your escape."
But she halted and turned again to me. She looked up with her face
close to mine, and for the first time she met my eyes fully. We stood
so a moment, and as she stood she flushed under what was in my look; a
wave of deepening pink crept slowly up through her brown pallor, but
she did not look away. I felt my face harden to iron. It was I who
turned from her, and the faces before me swam in red. Up to that time
I had grasped only the fact that she was alive, that she stood there,
warm, beautiful, unscathed, that I could see her, touch her, hear the
strange rise and fall of her voice. But with the clinging of her
glance to mine I remembered more, and sweat poured out on my forehead.
She was my wife. I had forfeited the right to touch her hand.
The French began to murmur questions and she turned back toward them.
She stood close by my side with her hand in mine, and looked into the
faces, French and savage, that hemmed her round. I think she saw tears
in some eyes, for her voice suddenly faltered. She made a gesture of
courtesy and greeting.
"I escaped days ago when we were traveling," she said in her
slow-moving French, that all around might hear. "I made my way to the
Pottawatamie Islands. Onanguissé had called me daughter, and I knew
that if I could find his people I was safe."
The crowd breathed together in one exclamation. "You have not been in
this camp at all?"
I felt her draw closer to me. "No, I have not been in this camp. You
thought that I was here?" Her grasp on my hand tightened. "Then this
is the Seneca camp. The battle is over," she said under her breath,
and she turned to me. Her eyes were brave, but I knew from her
trembling lips that she understood. "Where is my cousin?"
I took both her hands in mine. "He died in my arms. He died trying to
send me to you. He forgot self. It was the death of a brave man,
madame."
She stood and looked at me. She had forgotten the men around her.
"Monsieur," she said, and this time her eyes were soft with tears, "my
cousin was not so bad as he seemed. He could not help being what he
was."
"I understand."
"Monsieur, you conquered the Senecas?"
"Yes. We will forget it, madame."
She looked over the heads of the lines of soldiers and grew white to
the lips. I knew that she saw rows of scalps, and I could not save her
from it. Yet I implored.
"Do not think of it. It is all over, madame."
Her eyes came back to me. "And Pierre? Is Pierre safe?"
"Madame, he---- He died saving me."
Her hands grasped me harder. "And Labarthe?"
"I am all that is left, madame."
Still she held to me. "Where is Singing Arrow?"
I looked at Cadillac. He shook his head. "They found the Indian woman
this morning," he said. "She was dead beside her husband. Do not
grieve for her. Her face is more than happy; it is triumphant. My men
called me to look. Will you see her now, madame?"
But she could not answer. The hands that held mine began to chill, and
I saw the brown throat quiver. I turned to Cadillac. "I have no tent.
May I take madame to yours?"
He placed all that he had at her service. He was moved, for he did it
with scant phrase.
"But one moment," he begged. "Montlivet, one word with your wife
first. Madame, I beg you to listen. Will you look around you here?"
She stopped. "I have looked, monsieur."
"Madame, you see those Indians. They are war chiefs and picked braves.
The brawn and brain of six tribes are collected here before you. Do
you know what that means?"
I saw her look at him gravely. "I should understand. I have lived in
Indian camps, monsieur."
He looked back at her with sudden admiration that crowded the
calculation out of his eyes. "Madame!" he exclaimed. "We know your
spirit and knowledge; we wish that you could teach us some new way to
show you homage. But do you understand your husband's power? You have
never seen him in the field. Look at these war chiefs. They are
arrogant and untamed, but they follow your husband like parish-school
children. It is marvelous, madame."
She lifted her long deer's throat, and I felt her thrill. "Monsieur, I
think that not even you can know half what I do of my husband's
strength and power."
Her words were knives. I would have drawn her away, but Cadillac was
before me. "Wait, Montlivet, wait! This is my time. I have more to
say. Then, madame, to the point. These chiefs that you see are
leaving. They would have been gone now if you had not come. They are
leaving us because your husband said he would not lead them further.
Talk to him. I can hold the tribes here a few hours longer. If he
comes back to sanity by night, there will still be time for him to undo
his folly. Talk to him, madame."
Again I tried to interrupt, but the pressure of her hand begged me to
be silent. "What would you have me say to my husband?" she asked
Cadillac, and she stood close to me with her head high.
He drove his fists together. "I would have you bring him to reason,"
he groaned. "For three days he has lived in a trance. He planned the
attack, and led it without a quiver, but since then he has tried to
wash his hands of us and of the whole affair. It is a crucial time,
and he is acting like a madman. His anxiety about you has unbalanced
him. Bring him to reason, madame."
I saw her steal a glance at me as a girl might at her lover, and there
was a strange, fierce pride in her look. She bowed to Cadillac. "I am
glad you told me this, monsieur." Then she turned to me. "Shall we
go?"
But I looked over her head at the commandant. "It will be useless to
keep the tribes in waiting," I warned.
I went to Onanguissé, the woman on my arm. "My heart is at your feet,"
I said to him. "My blood belongs to you, and my sword!'"
He looked at the woman and at me, and he spoke thoughtfully. "When I
found her in my lodge we had no speech in common, but I understood. I
brought her to you. Now keep what you have. The best fisherman may
let a fish slip once from his net by accident, but his wits are fat if
he lets it go a second time."
I knew he was troubled. He saw no possession in my face, and he
thought me weak.
And then I took the woman to Cadillac's tent.